Singing In My Head
by Toni42
Summary: Shots about Marvel Characters, mostly those in the Avengers series, with a different song for each story. Always open for suggestions with both songs and shots. Most of these will ignore Civil War, but if I ever get in a twisted mood I might write something really angsty. But not usually. This will be updated at random. Shot One: Forgetting the Words, Part 1, Bucky Barnes.
1. Forgetting the Words

_**SUMMERY**_

 ** _Bucky's been doing fine the past six months since he finally escaped HYDRA. He really has; but he just couldn't seem to remember who he was. No matter what he did. It didn't matter that he spent seventy years as a brainwashed assassin, getting his memories whipped and being put in cyro when he wasn't. He wanted to remember anyway; even though he knew that, at some point, they were going to drag him back to the Chair._**

 **This song is called Eet by Regina Spektor. I didn't really like the song name so I didn't make that the chapter title. Also, most of these will likely almost entirely ignore Civil War. This story will be updated randomly and pretty much when ever I feel like it. Some will be in parts, others will not.**

* * *

 _Bucky Barnes_

 **PART ONE**

Forgetting the Words

* * *

 _It's like forgetting the words_

 _to your favorite song._

His feet dragged across the ground, his gaze downwards, counting the cracks and holes in the sidewalk. His hands- one soft, flesh, skin, veins with warm, flowing blood; the other hard, metal, with crisscrossing wires and turning gears- were stuffed into his worn, dirty, stolen jeans pockets. A blue baseball cap sat on top of brown, greasy, shoulder-length hair, a jacket hiding his mechanical arm. His trainers were worn, hand-me-downs, with holes in the bottom and faded black doodles on the sides.

He had no where to go; he had no food in his stomach; he kept on walking.

 _You can't believe it,_

 _you were always singing along._

A small boy, bedridden, face flushed with fever. Another boy, healthier then the other one, sat on the bed next to him, snuggles against him, both wrapped in a patchwork blanket that smelled of cherries. The smaller boy had a book and, despite the coughing and sneezing, he was reading it out to the other boy, doing the voices as they two young children looked at the pictures of a little girl in a strange new world.

A radio sat next to them, on the bedside table, a song, by a women, playing. He couldn't remember what it was called, or who the singer was. Hell, he couldn't make out the words. But it was comforting, a lull in the background, something that you don't really paying attention to but would miss if it were gone.

He couldn't remember the words to the song, but he knew it had been one of his favorites. He couldn't remember how old he was. He couldn't remember the boy doing the voice's name.

He kept on walking.

 _It was so easy_

 _and the words so sweet._

 _You can't remember;_

 _you try to feel the beat._

A hotdog; steamy, juicy, with red and white sauce. A nicked bill, a pleasant smile, and he was making his way down the streets again, filling his stomach.

It was sunset, the sky slowly going dark. Less people were out now, but some were still around; Brooklyn wasn't that far from the City that Never Slept, after all. He should head back to his apartment; it wasn't much, mostly paid with pickpocket'd money, and the landlord was probably going to kick him out soon. But it was something.

He turned, into an alley, hotdog half done. A whine, gentle, soft, sounded from behind a metal bin. He froze, free hand automatically going to his concealed knife. The bin was tipped over and a dog, brown, white circles around the eyes, fur mangy and ribs visible, began nosing through the trash in search of dinner.

He blinked at the dog, before his eyes went back to his half eaten hotdog. Shrugging, he gave a soft whistle, gaining the dogs attention, and threw the food in its direction. The dog- a female, he realized- leaped forward immediately, gulping the hotdog down within seconds. She looked back at him, head cocking to the side hopefully, wanting more.

Biting his lip regretfully, he shook his head, knowing that the dog would not understand that he didn't have anything else to give her. Tucking his hands back into his pockets, he continued walking.

The dog watched him go, watching him curiously. She turned around, and continued nosing through the trash for scraps.

 _Eee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee_

 _Eet eet eet_

 _Ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee_

 _Eet eet eet_

The teenage girl had left her bag at the table. He swept in, casual, like a predator disguised as it's surroundings. His hand- robotic, dirt-laced metal- shot out, latched onto the strap. He was out in a matter of moments, black bag slung over his shoulder.

In the park, children playing, people jogging, parents chatting while watching their kids out of the corner of their eyes. He sat on a bench, bag in his lap, and unzipped it, looking at his findings.

It was filled with books; mostly notebooks, but a few about science, math and biology. There was also a pencil case filled with writing equipment, a yellow smiley face clipped onto one of the backpack straps, a white iPod with earbuds in a side pocket, a wallet with thirty-nine dollars and twenty-four cents and a mobile phone.

He threw out the school books, deciding to keep the notebooks just in case, and re-zipped the backpack, swinging over both shoulders this time. He realized it had buckles, hanging from both straps, used to strap the bag more securely.

Taking both buckles in hand, he clipped them together across his chest, feeling almost safer with them like that. Of course, this was an illusion, but it brought comfort.

With ten dollars in hand, he went off in search of food.

 _You spend half of your life_

 _trying to fall behind._

 _You're using your headphones_

 _to drown out your mind._

He quite liked the iPod, he decided.

Most of the songs were soft, sweet, slow. Comforting, if not a bit sad. There was two or three that were some sort of boy band, but he decided to ignore those ones. The other ones, however, kept him calm. He didn't know what he'd do when the iPod ran out of battery; but, at the moment, it was semi-full and would last a couple more days.

He had a can of coca cola, a pink straw jutting out of it, in his flesh hand, the icy tin chilling his skin, and a burger in the other, metallic one. He took a bite out of it, savoring the taste, because he knew that as soon as he ran out of money it would be back to rummaging through the trash and nicking from unlucky passerby's.

The dog, tail wagging, lying in front of the old, rundown apartment complex as always, sat up at the sight of him, looking at him with excited eyes. He drank the last of his cola, took another bite out of his burger, before throwing the rest of it to the dog, who jumped on it instantly.

He threw the empty can into the waste bin and, patting the dogs head as he passed, he entered the apartment complex, beginning to make his way up dirty stairs- he dare not touch the railing with either flesh or metal- towards his two-roomed apartment. And the second room couldn't really even be considered a room; he preferred to call it the Pissing Closet in his head.

When the sun came back up, as always, he would make his way back outside again, to wander Brooklyn in hope that a memory would surface. And then he would buy one meal, as always, a day on the way back home and, as always, he'd give a bit of it to the dog outside. When he got back into his room, as always, he'd write in his notebooks about things that he'd remembered, so he wouldn't forget again.

But, as always, he knew that they were going to come back for him. And, as always, he would windup in the Chair.

Shaking his head, he detached himself from his thoughts and the world itself, preferring to listen to the music coming from the stolen headphones.

 _It was so easy_

 _and the words so sweet._

 _You can't remember;_

 _you try to move your feet._

He'd named the dog Betty. He didn't know why, or _when_ he'd decided to name her, but he'd gotten sick of calling her 'the dog' in his head. So Betty it was.

The iPod was very low on battery, and he'd stopped listening to it, to save it until he really needed it or until he found someway to charge it. He'd hacked into the phone, discovering the password with the help of the smudges on the screen, and pretty much deleted almost everything on it, rebooting the entire thing. He'd wanted to make it his, because he'd never had anything when he'd been with HYDRA. Even his Handlers changed, over time.

So he skipped most of the things on it, like the 'Google Account,' and when it came to his name he starred at it for a long time, thinking. The Captain, who he'd connected to the sick boy (he had no idea what happened. How did he get so _big_?), had called him "Bucky." Then "James Buchanan Barnes." How he got _Bucky_ out of that, he had no idea. But he didn't know whether or not he was Bucky anymore; he didn't know if he was James Barnes. Did he even deserve, after all he's done, to claim a name that might have, at one point in time, been his?

But the phone wanted a name; so he wrote James Barnes anyway. He could change it anytime, after all.

 _Eee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee_

 _Eet eet eet_

 _Ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee_

 _Eet eet eet_

He returned back to the apartment complex a little earlier then usual. He'd thought he'd seen someone from HYDRA, freaked out and left the Starbucks- which had, conveniently, free computers, which he'd used to charge the iPod. He wasn't sure if the man was really HYDRA or not; but he knew he was sleeping with an extra gun tonight.

Absentmindedly tossing the last of his fries to Betty, he made his way back to the rented room. It was on the second floor, but he didn't really mind. Second floors meant that it would take someone coming after him a tiny, itsy bitsy while longer to reach him. But, if he knew they were coming, it would be just enough time to grab his backpack- which he kept all of his personal, important stuff in (which wasn't much, but still)- and hop out the window. The fall might hurt his feet a little, but he's fallen from higher and suffered from far worse.

Pulling a bronze key out of his pocket, he put it in the lock, turning it. He froze, however, when he heard the door behind him open and someone exit, sitting something on the floor. Hand touching the hidden knife he always had on his person, he turned to face a young women, maybe nineteen, sitting an empty trashcan into the hall.

She glanced up, locking eyes with him, and smiled kindly. Her teeth were a bit crooked, and she had blond hair in a single braid. She was fairly pretty, someone the old him might have almost immediately asked on a date, and from the looks of it, she was kind too.

"Hey," she said. He smiled back at her, politely, the movement strange and foreign.

"Hello." he said back, voice hoarse from disuse.

The young women gestured to the still closed door behind him, "You live there? Funny, I haven't really seen you around before."

"I, er, prefer to be outside."

She chuckled, looking around the mangy hall. "Yeah, can't say I blame ya. I'm Lucy Brass." she stuck out her hand and, after a moment of hesitation, he reached out with his flesh hand and took it in a handshake.

"James Barnes."

"How long you been living here, James?"

He gave a small shrug, dropping his hand back to his side. "Not long. About two months."

"You see that dog outside?"

He nodded. "Yeah, I feed her every now and then. Named her Betty. She'd be a real beauty if she wasn't living in these conditions."

Lucy smiled, nodding in agreement. "I wanted to take her in, give her a bath or something, but my boyfriends allergic to dogs and I can't have her leaving her scent about the apartment. Ever think about taking her in yourself?"

He cocked his head to the side. No, he hadn't really thought about it. Sure, the Pissing Closet had a small shower in it and he could probably fix her up in that, but he hadn't bothered using it for two reasons. One, it meant his water bills weren't too high. Two, it didn't matter what he looked or smelled like. As long as he was functional, he was fine.

But he remembered, from over seventy years ago, Bucky Barnes constantly polishing his shoes, pressing his shirts, combing his hair. He remembered that tiny sick kid rolling his eyes and asking jokingly if he was off to see the Queen of England or something, since he always seemed to dress to impress, despite their lacking in money.

"Yeah," he said, after a moment, returning to the present. "Maybe I will take her in."

Lucy smiled at him, before looking over her shoulder into her apartment. "I better get going; got the cooker on. It was nice meeting you, James."

"You too, Luce." he said, honestly, as the young women closed the door behind her. Smiling despite himself, he pulled his key out of the lock and jogged back down the stairs in search of Betty.

 _It's like forgetting the words_

 _to your favorite song._

The dog, ever excited, eagerly followed him up the stairs. He was walking backwards, whistling and encouraging her, making sure she followed him instead of going off to spray on the wall or something. This place was already dirty enough.

Borrowing shampoo from Lucy Brass, he herded Betty into his rented room. It was about the size of an average living room, with a two-seated couch that smelled of cigarettes, a broken TV, a single bathroom sink, a rickety table, a single chair, a mattress on the floor. His Pissing Closet had a dirty toilet and a corner shower, a spider living in the corner above the lockless door.

He pushed Betty into the tiny shower, stripping down so he was completely nude, and turned on the spray. It was chilly, but it wouldn't turn up any higher, so he would have to make due.

Leaving the shower door open so he had more room, he got in the shower with Betty, on his knees, and began scrubbing into the dogs fur with the shampoo, dirt falling away with the water. Betty seemed to be enjoying herself, panting happily and licking his face in apparent thanks.

 _It was so easy_

 _and the words so sweet._

The shampoo and water got on him. As Betty shook herself dry in the small area outside the shower, he stood, the water still spraying into his face. Almost unconsciously, he reached out and gripped the shampoo bottle, deciding it was about time he did himself.

It got in his eyes, which stung, but he ignored it in favor of scrubbing as hard as he could at his skin, washing away the dirt and watching it stain the water as it followed it down the drain. Washing away the blood only he could see.

When he turned the shower off and stepped out, he grabbed a dish towel, since he didn't have any proper towels, and dried himself, then did Betty. He pulled his clothes back on, his skin strangely, _nicely_ soft. He felt good for the first time in seventy years. He felt _clean_. HYDRA did wash him, of course, but never properly. They more of just soaked him with freezing water while he was chained down, naked and disoriented. He remembered some of them, usually the American's, liked to lock the door- as if anyone would have tried to stop them- and do more then just soak him.

Shivering and feeling bile rise up in the back of his throat, he exited the Pissing Closet, Betty trotting over to the mattress and lying down for a rest, tail wagging happily. He let her, not minding her sleeping where he slept, and instead leaned over the sink, looking at himself in the cracked mirror. He'd been shocked when he'd first seen his reflection after escaping. He hadn't truly looked at his face since the fall.

It had brought back a memory, the first time, of the him from long ago, of Bucky. He'd looked exactly the same, but with shorter hair, no stubble on his chin and his eyes had been brighter. Alive. _Happy_.

A pair of scissors; small, silver, sharp, if a bit rusted. They sat on the edge of the sink, gleaming in the soft light coming from the single lightbolb dangling from the ceiling. His eyes were drawn to the scissors, just like they had been drawn to the shampoo bottle. He tore his gaze away, making eye contact with himself in the mirror. He ran a hand through his wet mop of hair.

There was a comb in the bathroom; he went to get it.

 _You can't remember;_

 _you try to move your feet._

Bits of brown hair surrounded his feet, on the cold floor, lying limp. He ran the black comb through his newly shortened hair again, fixing it until it was just right. His hands fell back to his sides as he looked at his reflection again. The man in the cracked mirror looked so much more familiar. So much more like Bucky instead of the Asset.

He was burying the Asset. Burying him so deep down that maybe, just maybe, HYDRA won't be able to dig him back up when they found him. Not if.

When.

He used his knives and a dab of the borrowed shampoo to shave away the stubble. He looked so much younger without it and with the shorter hair.

Glancing at Betty, he sheathed his knives and picked the shampoo bottle up, making his way across the hall to return it to Lucy Brass. Apparently, she liked what he'd done with his hair. He smiled at her, a warm feeling bubbling in his chest, and he thanked her.

He turned back around; locked the door behind him.

 _It was so easy_

 _and the words so sweet._

A month since he'd taken Betty in. He'd gotten her a collar- simple, brown, simply so she wouldn't get carted off to the pound (Lucy Brass had warned him about that). He didn't get her a leash; he didn't like leashes. Besides, Betty wasn't his pet. She was simply an acquaintance, a friend. She could come and go as much as she pleased. But she seemed to want to stick with him, most of the time; this fact made his chest warm.

He remembered the Captain. That his favorite color was green, that he hated hospitals, that he was a stupid little punk from the very beginning, that his favorite food was cherry pie, that he used to put newspapers in his shoes. He also remembered the Captains- _Steve's-_ mother, Sarah. He remembered Bucky's mother, Winifred. His father. His little sisters.

He'd promised to protect them all; he failed.

Screaming; people running; a child crying; blasts from repulsers; a monsters roar.

His head snapped up and his feet were moving before he even realized it, Betty running beside him. But not in the direction the other people were fleeing. He was heading towards the sounds of fighting, his hand going up over his shoulder to grip the handle of his hidden rifle.

He turned the corner and skidded to a halt, taking in the scene before him. HYDRA agents- it was so plainly obvious with their skull-octopus logo on their armor for everyone to see. There was at least two-hundred of them, all armed to the teeth, against seven Avengers. This was probably the very last of HYDRA, the soldiers anyway, since the Widow had dumped all of HYDRA and SHIELD's information out onto the internet.

They had planted bombs, he realized. With the two-hundred of HYDRA soldiers and bombs together, the Avengers seemed to be struggling. They wanted to take out the threat and disarm the bombs as fast as possible, but there was still a lot of civilians in the area and they didn't want any of them to get hurt. HYDRA, however, had never cared for such things.

The Captain, Steve, was taking on five at the same time. One of them was horribly scarred, his face twisted into hate. He realized it was Brock Rumlow. He must have survived the building collapsing.

He took out his rifle, half hidden behind a parked car, and took aim. He didn't have a clear shot of Rumlow, but that didn't mean he couldn't shoot anyone else. Another HYDRA agent came up from behind Steve, pointing a gun at his head, and he didn't hesitate. He fired the rifle, the bullet going right through the HYDRA agents ear and out the other. He was dead within moments.

Steve, surprised, glanced behind him, still mostly focused on the fight. Shrugging it off, he took down two agents and continued to fight the remaining three.

He climbed up a fire escape, looking for a better place to shoot, helping Betty up the ladder so a stray bullet didn't hit her. He didn't want to leave her alone down there. He halfway up the fire escape before he settled, setting the barrel of his rifle on the railing and peering down the scope. HYDRA soldiers fell to the ground within moments, dead or dying.

The Avengers began to realize that some of the agents were being killed by bullets; not arrows, like their sniper preferred. They began to glance around, but no one spotted him on the fire escape. He reloaded.

Steve was being herded, ever so slowly, away from the rest of the group. He seemed to realize this, but there wasn't much he could do about it besides punch, kick, duck, block, swing and throw. It wasn't working.

 _You try to remember._

He shouldered the riffle and ran back down the fire escape, jumping to the ground and rolling, giving chase as he saw the HYDRA agents and Steve vanish from sight. Betty was hot on his heels, growling and snarling, not truly knowing what was going on but sensing that this was a fight; one she mustn't lose. She was a street dog, after all.

He dashed around the corner. Steve was down, his shield out of reach, the HYDRA agents shocking him with enough electricity to kill a normal man. He recognized these sticks; they've used it on him countless times.

Shaking his head, willing his thoughts away, he raised his riffle and fired, taking down half the HYDRA soldiers within seconds. Betty leaped forward, snagging her razor sharp teeth around the forearm of a rather large soldier, clawing and biting and ripping and snarling. The HYDRA soldier was screaming; blood matted Betty's fur.

Spring forward, he did a round-house kick, hitting an agent right in the chin and causing his head to snap up, teeth biting into his tongue hard enough to draw blood. He drew a knife with his stronger, metal arm; plunged it into the soldiers heart, with enough force for it to go all the way through, and ripped it back out again.

"Asset!" Rumlow hissed, his eyes narrowing. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Steve begin to inch towards his shield. Good. He wasn't unconscious.

He sprang forward again, knife raising above his head, preparing to plunge it into this man's- this _monsters_ \- skull.

"Sputnik!"

 _You try to feel the beat._

His muscles tensed; the knife and riffle fell from his hands, clattering against the ground; his eyes rolled into the back of his head. A flash of red, white and blue. A neck snapping. A terrified shout. A dog barking.

 _"BUCKY!"_

Blackness.


	2. Home

**This song is called Home by Paradise Fears.  
**

* * *

 _Bucky Barnes_

 **PART TWO**

Home

* * *

 _Can you feel this,_

 _the walls are closing._

The book closed with a tiny _snap_ , and little James felt tears burn at the back of his eyes as his mother stood up to leave. His small, chubby hands reached out and grabbed her sleeve, not wanting her to leave, because then the lights will go out and it'll be dark and the monsters will come and get him.

His mother knelt down next to him, taking both his his hands in her own. "What's wrong, James?" she asked in a soft, gentle whisper.

"P-Please don't leave." James whimpered, tears leaking from his eyes and trailing down his cheeks. "I-I'm s-scared."

"There's nothing to be afraid of, my little one." his mother promised, whipping his tears from his chubby cheeks. "The shadows are not something you need to fear. You can't run from them; just invite them to dance, like you would a gal."

James blinked at her, his eyes trailing to the shadows in the corners of his bedroom. He nodded slowly, suddenly understanding. The shadows didn't want to hurt him; they were just lonely. They just wanted to dance.

His mother smiled, whipped the last of his tears away, kissed him on the forehead, tucked him in and left the room, blowing out the candle on his bedside table. In his dreams, James danced in the dark. He danced to the music in his head.

 _Slipping further from the hand we're holding._

 _Feel the footsteps inching closer,_

 _still so far away._

It was as if someone was hammering nails into his skull and bees were buzzing in his ears. His eyelids were heavy and crusty, his mouth dry and lips chapped. He felt horrible, to say the least. But then his attention was drawn to his right hand, his flesh one. It was as someone was holding it, rubbing almost soothing circles on his palm.

It was... it was _nice_. It made him feel safe. Secure. Like nothing could hurt him as long as whoever was holding his hand was there. It felt as if even HYDRA couldn't drag him back to the Chair.

This was a lie. He knew this was a lie.

It lulled him to sleep anyway.

 _It's 2 am,_

 _but I can't sleep._

 _I'm running circles in my head,_

 _around a restless dream._

When he awoke again, there was no soothing hand rubbing circles on his palm. He was completely alone, on a white hospital bed, in what he realized was some sort of closed off infirmary. An IV line was in his vein, connected to a monitor beeping in time with his heart, a steady rhythm, almost like a single instrument in a song's chorus.

Swallowing, he slowly sat up, scanning his body for injuries. He was in a pair of joggy bottoms and a t-shirt that weren't his and a bit big for him, but he had no injuries besides a few light bruises that should be gone by tomorrow.

Looking up, he spotted a clock hanging on the wall near the door. It was two in the morning, and the only light was a ceiling light set on dim and the spiking red line on the heart monitor.

Then he remembered the fight.

 _Sputnik._

Rumlow used his safe word.

 _Sputnik._

The one thing that truly stopped him from ever escaping.

 _Sputnik.  
_

The word that always, _always_ promised pain.

 _Sputnik_.

He was with HYDRA.

The heart monitor screamed.

 _I'm not the person that I used to be,_

 _but I still can't shake this,_

 _no, I can't take this._

In movies and sometimes in books, someone will wake up in the hospital and rip out their IV. Then they'd stroll out the front doors like some sort of badass god. But in real life, you tear out an IV, you could seriously hurt yourself. That's why doctors take it out and put it in so slowly. This is your _vein,_ after all.

So even though he was having trouble breathing and his flesh hand was shaking horribly, he reached over with his mechanical hand and gently, slowly pulled the long needle out of his arm. As soon as it was out, the heart monitor began to blare even louder, which only caused his heart to jump right up into his throat.

His metal fist flashed in the dim lighting; the monitor was on the floor, screen half gone and flashing sparks.

He heard hurried footsteps in the hall; his breaths came out in short gasps, he couldn't get enough air into his lungs.

He couldn't go back to being an Asset.

He couldn't go back to the Chair.

 _You said, you said,_

 _are you finding me where you're supposed to be?_

 _but I said, I said,_

 _I'm so scared to want this, knowing all I want is_

 _Home._

He made to jump out of the bed, but his legs caught on the blankets. He fell over the side, landing on his arm and making him wince. He hurried to untangle his legs, but a moment later the door was flung open, smashing into the wall and leaving a large crack behind. His breath caught in his throat, terrified tears burning in his eyes.

Kicking the blanket off but his legs shaking too much to support him, he scrambled backwards, hands slipping on the tiled floor and backed himself- rather stupidly, he realized- into a corner, drawing his knees to his chest.

He looked up automatically to see how many HYDRA agents had entered the room, probably grinning and snickering at his display of cowardly fear, but to his surprise all he saw were three people, looking at him in shock.

One was a dark skinned man, the other a man with a goatee and a single red metal gauntlet, and the last a muscular blond. The man with the gauntlet was regarding him with wide-eyed shock, the dark skinned man looked like he was pitying him and the muscular one's blue eyes were oddly shinny, his hands and knees shaking, as if he were about to break down. In his panic, he recognized no one for almost twenty-four seconds.

When he did, it felt as if his heart had dropped to his stomach and shattered.

The Avengers were working with HYDRA.

The attack had been a setup.

Looking back, he supposed that's what finally did it and pushed him over the edge.

He burst into tears.

 _Why am I everywhere but home?_

 _Why do I feel so alone,_

 _when everybody's screaming out my name?_

Steve was in front of him in an instant, probably without even thinking about it. He was on his knees and his arms were around him, pulling him up against his broad chest, his face pressed into the crook of his neck. He couldn't bring up the strength to pull away, to hate this man for working for the people that tore him apart.

"It's okay, Buck." Steve whispered into his hair, and he felt the other man's own tears wetting his scalp, "It's okay, I've got ya, I've got ya. I'm here, Buck. I'm not gonna let anyone hurt you again. I promise." his voice broke on the last word, but he kept whispering it anyway, over and over and over again. "I promise, I promise, I promise."

The other two men left the room. He didn't know when, and that thought scared him a little, despite everything, but they had. The door closed behind them. He distantly wondered, at the back of his head, if they were watching from a hidden camera. To make sure he didn't lash out and try to escape again.

To make sure he didn't try and escape the whipping.

He sobbed harder, Steve rocking both of them back and forth, and he remembered, distantly, as if through a thick fog, of him holding a smaller version of Steve much like this, after his mother had died.

He realized he was shaking his head, and his arms- shaking, weak, even his metal one seeming to have lost its usual super strength- moved without him even realizing they were moving until they were pressed against Steve's chest and pushing himself away, farther into the hard, cold corner. Through his tears, he saw a flash of hurt on Steve's face and immediately felt guilty, but dammit he felt as if he was about to throw up.

The Avengers were working for HYDRA.

Steve was working with HYDRA.

Steve wanted him broken.

He went to say this out loud, but the words caught in his throat, drowned out by his own terrified sobs. "You-" he tried again, "Y-You-"

"I'm not going to hurt you." Steve whispered, but he was still shaking his head, because Steve was _lying_ , he had to be. Maybe he wasn't going to hurt him directly, maybe he really didn't want him to be in pain, but he was still with HYDRA. He still approved of the Asset.

"Bucky," Steve choked out, his own tears slipping from his eyes, "It's okay. You're safe, I promise you're safe. I'm not going to let anyone hurt you."

 _I just wanna go h_ _ome._

 _Pack my bags and hit the road._

He must of said something out loud, probably the one thought chanting in his mind, _you're with HYDRA_ , because Steve's eyes widened and he was shaking his head, another wave of tears forming.

"No." Steve whispered, voice cracking and breaking, "No, it's okay, I'm not with them, Buck. I've never been with them and I never will be. Oh, God," a sob of his own wracked the Captain's chest, and he found himself hesitating, watching the blond warily while trying to silence his own sobbing. "I'd never approve of anything that they did to you, Bucky. Never in a million years."

He sniffed, using his flesh hand to wipe away his tears. "P-Promise?" his voice sounded small, even to his own ears, and he was just as surprised as Steve probably was that it came out. He couldn't even really see the point of promises. Maybe once, before he fell, he'd used and kept promises, maybe even took them seriously. He sure remembered Steve taking them seriously.

That's why he believed him when Steve reached forward, arms wrapping around him again and pulling him close, burying his nose into much shorter brown hair and whispered, voice strong and sure, "I promise."

 _Knowing that all I need to find_

 _is the life I left behind._

 _Oh, I just wanna go home._

He didn't know how long they sat there. It could have been seconds, hours or even years for all he knew. But, eventually, Steve pulled back, wiping away his tears with the back of his hand.

"Are you okay?" the Captain asked quietly, as if afraid that if he rose his voice, the other man would go running. He nodded, and Steve slowly rose to his feet, offering him a hand to help him up. He didn't need help getting up, and this gesture confused him, but he didn't want to make Steve upset, so he took it and allowed himself to be pulled gently to his feet.

The door opened then, and the winged man from the Potomac was there, carrying a tray. The winged man sat the tray on the bed he'd been sleeping in, made brief eye contact with Steve, who nodded, before leaving again, closing the door behind him.

"Hungry?" Steve asked, turning to him. His stomach gave a loud growl in response, making the other man chuckle and walk over to the tray. He followed, a bit excited at the prospect of food. He hadn't eaten in a while, as the money he'd found in the backpack had run out a while ago.

Steve sat on the edge of the bed and he crawled up next to him, cross-legged, his knee brushing against Steve's thigh. The Captain smiled at him, his eyes alight with something he couldn't quite place, and he sat the tray in his lap. On it were two brightly colored bowls, one blue and the other red, filled with brown liquid with chunks of meat and chopped carrots floating about, two matching cups filled with an orange liquid and a pair of silver spoons.

Picking up the blue bowl, Steve handed it to him slowly so as to not spill its contents. He took it, switching it to his metal hand when it burned his flesh one, and Steve handed him a spoon before picking up his own broth.

He blinked at the food stupidly for a moment, hesitantly glancing up at Steve to see him scooping the broth into the spoon and putting it in his mouth, chewing the chunks and swallowing the liquid. He fiddled with the spoon, trying to remember how to hold it, before holding it in a fist, the spooned end pointing down.

 _Home is where they say the heart is,_

 _but mine can't figure out just where we started._

 _So caught between chasing this dream._

Awkwardly, he scooped some broth into the spoon and brought it to his mouth, only getting a drop or two in and spilling the rest down his front. He winced as it's heat stung his skin and felt his cheeks burn as Steve looked over at him, blinking in surprise.

He tried again, this time holding the spoon upwards, but this didn't help much either and he spilled more then half down his front again, his mechanical hand automatically moving as if to catch the falling drops in the bowl, but instead he spilled some of the broth inside it on his stomach.

Cheeks burning and eyes looking away from the super soldier next to him, he allowed Steve to take the bowl and spoon away, his knees snapping up to his chest as soon as they were gone and his spine curling over them in a human ball. The broth he'd spilled on himself was no longer scolding hot but was now cold, which seemed even worse.

A large, gentle hand took his chin and forced him to look at it's owner, who smiled at him softly and began wiping the broth off his face with a napkin. He let him, his chest feeling strangely warm, as if there was some sort of happy balloon in it. Steve cleaned the broth off the shirt as well, but it was stained and only took the cold away. This made him wince, and the happy balloon felt as if it had a puncture in it.

"I stained it." he said quietly, guilty. He was sure to be punished for that.

Steve shrugged, barely giving the new stains a glance. "I've got more shirts."

He felt as if his blood had turned to ice, and when he spoke, his voice was a frightened, high-pitched squeal. "T-This is your shirt?"

"Hey," said Steve, eyes glinting in concern and taking his flesh and metal hand in his own, "Hey, Bucky, it's okay. It's no big deal, it's just a shirt. I've got loads and I can get more anyway."

He swallowed thickly, nodding but no longer meeting the Captains eyes. Steve sighed softly and let go of his hands. A moment later, a spoon was in front of his face, filled with broth. He looked up at Steve, hesitant, but the other man only smiled hopefully at him.

He blinked at him, before returning his gaze to the spoon, leaning forward slightly and closing his mouth around it. When he pulled back, chewing a large chunk of meat, Steve's smile had widened and his eyes were sparkling. This made him smile back, which, impossibly, made the other man smile even wider and it looked like his face was in danger of splitting.

 _And watching what I left fall apart and_

 _My mom, i swear she's every face I see._

 _My dad, when I'm gone, oh, he can't sleep._

 _They tell me that the world is waiting for me,_

 _but I hate watching my brothers growing up without me._

Steve spoon-fed him until the entire bowl was empty, before handing him the red cup of juice, which he was glad to discover was much simpler to use then the spoon. Once Steve finished his own broth and juice, he stood up with the dirty dishes and tray, said "I'll be right back." and vanished out the door.

He swallowed and, realizing he hadn't asked permission to be on the bed, slipped off it and onto the floor, pressing his back against the wall where the heart monitor had been. It was gone and the glass had been swept up. How had they done that without him noticing?

Steve returned moments later, carrying a new shirt. When he saw the bed empty, his eyes widened in panic, but a split-second later turned to relief when he spotted him sitting on the floor, before his brow furrowed in confusion. "What are you doing down there?"

He ducked his head, looking at his clasped hands. When he didn't answer, Steve came forward and knelled in front of him, setting the shirt on the floor.

"Alright," he said, taking the bottom of the stained shirt, "Arms up."

Frowning in confusion, he obeyed, and a shiver wracked his spine as Steve pulled the t-shirt over his head, cold air hitting his exposed skin. It didn't last long though, because Steve had already grabbed the other shirt and pulled it over his head, replacing the stained one.

"Better?" the Captain asked, and he nodded, giving him a weak smile. Steve returned it with a much stronger one, his hand slowly reaching out to run through his short brown hair and he let out a shaky breath.

Folding the stained shirt and leaving it on the floor, Steve got to his feet and once again offered him his hand, which he took with only slight hesitation. "It's three in the morning," said Steve, "Think you can get back to sleep?"

Not knowing if he should say yer or no, he shrugged, head bowed and his metal hand rubbing his flesh one uncertainly.

"Want me to stay?"

He was nodding before he even realized it, and when he did realize it, he was about to apologies, but the happy look on Steve's face made him falter. Yes must be the right answer then.

 _You said, you said,_

 _are you finding me where you're supposed to be?_

 _But I said, I said,_

 _I'm begging on my knee's,_

 _Please, God, just save me._

A hand, fingers decorated with shiny rings and ruby stones; pain, in his cheek, one of the rings cutting his flesh; his head, snapped to the side, teeth clenched in an effort not to make any noises. The more he screamed, the more pain he got.

"You don't have a choice." the man with the rings hissed, spittle flying from his mouth. "Weapons do not having _choices."_

He swallowed, chin against his chest. He knew that. _Of course_ he knew that. But the man had been so small, with blond hair, and he'd hesitated for a reason he didn't fully understand. This hesitation had been enough time for the mission to fail, but it's not like it mattered. He would be sent out to kill the small man again, whether he liked it or not, and he was not allowed to fail a second time.

"Wipe him." the ringed man demanded, and his heart jumped right into his throat. "Wipe him now!"

He was pushed back into the Chair, the restrains closed around his arms and the bite guard was placed into his mouth. The chair was leaning backwards, the machine was coming to life, the two panels sparking with electricity as they closed around his head-

 _"Bucky!"_

 _Home._

 _Why am I everywhere but home?_

 _Why do I feel so alone_

 _when everybody's screaming out my name?_

 _I just wanna go home._

 _Pack my bags and hit the road._

 _Knowing all I need to find_

 _is the life I left behind._

 _Oh, I just wanna go._

He jolted upright with a scream, sweat dripping into his eyes and his head snapped left and right, looking for the HYDRA agents and the Chair that _hurt so much and he didn't like it, he didn't want it-_

"Bucky!" Steve shouted again, grabbing his wrists. He jumped, almost crushing Steve's hand, but he caught himself just in time.

He'd insisted that Steve have the bed, but Steve had insisted that he should have the bed, that he shouldn't sleep on the floor. Eventually, the Captain decided they should just share it and the only reason he agreed was because he was planning on slipping off the bed and onto the floor as soon as the other man was asleep. But then Steve clung to him like a starfish, and he soon found himself drifting off as well.

Steve pulled him into a hug, rubbing soothing circles on the trembling mans back and whispering reassurance into his ear. They sat like that for a long time, until his trembling eventually came to a stop, but Steve still didn't let him go. He buried his face into the crook of the Captain's neck, breathing him in and Steve's arms tightened around him.

"Are you okay?" the Captain whispered. He nodded.

"Do you wanna talk about it?" he shook his head, clinging to Steve's shirt and becoming a starfish himself.

"Alright. Alright, that's fine. That's okay, Buck. I won't make you."

 _When the miles are getting longer,_

 _Street's are getting darker,_

 _You've got no where to turn_

Steve was leading him by the hand into a lab, where the man with the goatee and another man with curly hair and glasses were talking quietly in a corner. When they entered, the two men looked up and made their way over.

"Hello," the man with glasses greeted with a kind smile that he weakly returned, "My name's Bruce." he gestured to the other man, "And this is Tony. You must be Bucky Barnes, right?"

He nodded, glancing at Steve just in case he'd got it wrong. Apparently he hadn't, because Steve didn't correct him.

"Well, Bucky," continued Bruce, "Tony and I are going to take a look at that metal arm of yours. Is that okay?"

Hesitantly, he nodded, looking down at his mechanical arm. He'd check the wiring every day, but he was afraid of touching anything in case he broke it, and it was far from in best shape. The technicians always took care of it, so apart from knowing that he had to open the plates when it got wet so it can dry out, he didn't know how it worked or what to do if it froze or broke.

He was led to a table and told to sit on it and take off his shirt. When he did, Tony and Bruce began opening up his arms panels, taking a look at the wiring and mechanism and muttering to each other every now and then. Steve stood on his other side, leaning against the table and watching the two scientists like a hawk.

 _And the walls are closing in one you_

 _and everyone you love._

 _Feel's like there's no one left to trust._

 _I just need something to believe,_

 _So please, God, just take me_

 _home._

When they were done, Steve led him out of the lab and into the elevator. Finally, he worked up the courage to ask what's been going through his mind since he'd calmed down after the nightmare.

"Steve?"

"Yeah, bud?" asked Steve, looking at him and waiting patiently. He shifted from foot to foot, uncomfortable.

"I... er..."

Concerned, Steve stepped towards him and placed a hand on his shoulder, ducking down a little so he could meet the other man's downcast eyes. "Bucky?"

"Y-You know that dog that was with me during the attack?"

Steve blinked at him in surprise, before nodding slowly. "Yeah. What about it?"

"W-Well, s-she was... uh..."

Understanding sparked in Steve's eyes. "She was yours?"

Biting his lip, he nodded before averting his eyes to his feet. Steve took his chin in hand and forced him to look at him.

"That explains why it- she's been hanging outside the tower doors all day. Want me to go get her?"

Bucky nodded eagerly, and Steve smiled at him, gently ruffling his hair before turning to the buttons and pressing the one to the lobby.

 _Why am I everywhere but home?_

 _Why do I feel so alone_

 _When everybody's screaming out my name?_

Betty, fur matted with dry blood, pounced on him as soon as the door was opened, knocking Bucky to the floor as she began covering his face in slobbers. He heard Steve laugh as he tried to fend her off, only to fail spectacularly.

Once Steve had dragged Betty off him, who began to lick his hand, Bucky climbed to his feet and they got back into the elevator. Steve took out his phone and began texting someone, who or why, Bucky didn't know, too focused on trying to keep the hyper dog from jumping up on the two soldiers.

Steve gave a sigh of relief just before the doors opened, and they had just barely entered the living room before Natalia Romanova, who he remembered training back in the Red Room, and Thor were on them, cooing and petting Betty. Tony showed up and had a whisper-fight that Bucky didn't care about with Steve, before he stormed off back to his lab with Bruce. The winged man, who'd introduced himself as Sam, stood in the kitchen doorway next to Clint Barton, both eating a sandwich.

Natalia and Thor took Betty off to give her a bath, and Steve led Bucky to the couch.

"Can you tell me what you remember?" he asked, Sam sitting down on a recliner.

Bucky told them, although there was still large gaps, and he only told them the good ones. Not the ones involving blood, smoking guns and screams from both other people and himself. Steve and Sam were silent throughout the whole time, and when he finished, Steve asked where's he's been since the Potomac. Bucky told the truth.

"We can go to your apartment tomorrow morning and get your things, if you like." Sam said. Bucky hesitated, before nodding. He didn't tell them the address.

 _I just wanna go home._

 _Pack my bags and hit the road._

He could leave. Despite all the Avengers keeping a close eye on him, he saw many opportunities to slip away and vanish again. To head back to his apartment with Betty, grab his things and run before they even realized he was gone.

But he didn't. He wasn't sure why, but he didn't.

Maybe it was the smiles and gentle touches that Steve gave him, or the way he'd pet Betty and slip her food off his plate. Maybe it was the way Natalia- who goes by Natasha now- would take him to the gym and they would spar almost like they did back in the Red Room. Maybe it was the way Tony joked around him when everyone else was cautious, the way he didn't seem to walk on eggshells like everyone else. Maybe it was the Nerf game Clint likes to play with him, or Thor's bright grin and happy atmosphere. or the movie nights. Maybe it was because he was actually getting food in his stomach or because Betty liked it here.

Maybe it was because _he_ liked it here.

 _Knowing all I need to find_

 _is the life I left behind._

 _Oh, I just wanna go home._

He was curled against Steve, Betty on the floor at their feet and the rest of the team pilled around with popcorn and drinks as they watched something called Star Wars. Steve had his arm around Bucky in a half hug and was practically on top of him, but Bucky couldn't bring himself to mind.

The movie ended, but no one made a move to get up. Bucky looked around and realized they were all asleep.

Now was the perfect time to slip away. Steve wasn't on top of him that much, and he could easily squeeze out and replace himself with a pillow so that the Captain had something to hug. He could grab Betty and leave, maybe even steal one of Tony's cars and some food and water from the kitchen. He could leave right now and never come back.

He didn't.

Instead Bucky found himself snuggling into Steve's embrace, his flesh hand flopping down over the side of the couch to touch the top of Betty's head. He closed his eyes, letting out a soft sigh through his nose, and allowed himself to sleep.

He was home, after all.

* * *

 **Okay, c'mon guys, I need reviews! Who should I do next? Tony? Natasha? Spiderman, Loki, Sam, Steve? Song requests are also greatly appreciated. Also, please note that not all of these might be in the same universe, 'cause I might do another Bucky one or something, but different.**


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